


Comprehend

by AlphaStarr



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, M/M, and by "vague" i mean you probably will not figure out what some of them are, immensely vague biblical references, seriously they only exist because i'm bad at picking names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt by Tumblr user youdonthavetohideyourself:</p><p>"I just really want a fic where Dave moves on, like after the game or an AU where the game didn’t happen and Dave got sick of waiting for John and just moved on and found some hot dame that John didn’t approve of but there was nothing wrong with her like she was super nice and totally chill but John couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her and then like her and Dave stay together for a couple of years and Dave is like 'sup Egbert, I want you to be my best man' "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I'm not very good at writing. It's fun, though, so I guess I hope you enjoy this thing.

You are John Egbert, and you just don't understand sometimes.

You never claimed to be particularly intelligent-- you never quite understood all of what Rose was saying once she started using obscure vocabulary, and to this day you still don't understand ~ATH programming-- but you really, really should be able to get this one. Point. Through. Your. Head.

Dave had a girlfriend. A really hot girlfriend. You might even call her nice. But something about her just... rubbed you the wrong way.

Michelle was tall-- taller than you, but that's not too difficult since you only stand at 5'2"-- with the type of figure that had guys falling over themselves left and right to talk to her. She was pretty, you guess. Short, auburn hair; attractively tanned; she even wore shades like Dave did, prescription ones to aid her poor eyesight.

She was smart, too, and also a lot of fun. Being in her second year of law school and the top of her class, you couldn't exactly call her dumb, and she was almost as good as Dave at his shitty video games. She was actually better than you at a lot of them, and the only thing you really had to resent her for, you guess, was for blowing your character to bits every other time.

You guess that she was pretty nice, since she must have been for Dave to hang out with her so much. You've never exactly stuck around long enough to see yourself. You know that she's intentionally made extra dinner for you whenever she's been over to cook, and that her spaghetti sauce is really, really great.

But you don't like her. You can't like her; you've tried. There's just something in the way she laughs (Dave's jokes aren't even that funny!), something that you don't like about her smile (bluh, could they get any sappier?), something you hate about the way she dresses (in Dave's clothes-- doesn't she have any of her own?), something you can't stand about the way she practically hangs off his arm as she walks hand-in-hand down the street with Dave.

There isn't anything particular about it. Her teeth are straight and she doesn't have bad breath and she's nice and she obviously isn't planning on hurting Dave anytime soon, and you don't understand why you hate her so much.

What you do understand is that Dave doesn't hate her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He's all over her like print on a newspaper, and that really bothers you. That, you comprehend-- you're his best bro! He isn't supposed to blow you off to go on a date with her. He isn't supposed to see her more than he sees you, especially since you actually share an apartment. He isn't supposed to dedicate every song on his latest indie-album to her like some lovesick fool.

He isn't supposed to be sleeping naked, under the covers with her when you wake up from the nightmares that have plagued you since childhood and need someone. You aren't supposed to fall back asleep still crying, with taunting, bright red words (loser! dumbass! stupid!) still flashing across you retinas and imaginary clowns scratching graffiti into your head.

He isn't supposed to have his strong, sword-wielding arms wrapped around her to protect her dreams like some fucking knight guarding a damsel who doesn't even need to be rescued.

He isn't supposed to kiss her like she's the most precious thing in the world, with barely-restrained passion but obvious affection.

He isn't supposed to care for her... more than he does for you.

"... oh," you breathe, your voice trembling.

You are John Egbert and you think you finally understand.

Just as you have for the past who-even-KNOWS-how-many minutes, you stare dumbly at the TV screen's electrically bright, vermilion "GAME OVER" and the controller falls out of your hands. You don't even hear it hit the carpet. You'd stopped playing a long time ago, having given up all semblance of even _trying_ as soon as Dave had left for his date.

Your mouth opens and closes, your mind a mess. You take a deep, shuddering breath in, and you blink your eyes hard.

"Oh..." you manage to whisper. "Oh my god."

You collapse backwards against the sofa and close your eyes, the blood-red text from the screen still flashing in your mind. You feel a prickling sensation at the corners of your eyes, and no, you're not crying, it's just from staring at the screen so long, dumbass, you should have realized this earlier, stupid! It was over, it was over a long time ago, but you only just realized it now with your eyes closed and it's going to start burning into the TV screen, isn't it?

You smack the remote beside you in the vacant cushion. You don't particularly care which buttons you press, but you hope one of them was the off button. Dave would be pissed at you if you'd burned a permanent "GAME OVER" into the television.

You sit like that for a long time, elbow draped over head draped over sofa. Then, you hear what sounds like fumbling for keys and you scramble to sit up. You turn off the TV (shit-- you guess you missed the button. Dave's going to be so mad later) and move to make yourself scarce. You're used to hiding out in your room when Dave brings his girlfriend over, a battle technique you'd devised to avoid confrontation altogether. You especially don't want to see her right now, and definitely not all over Dave like she normally is.

But, no, it's just Dave, and he's unironically so excited that his hands were shaking while trying to put the key in the lock. His face doesn't show a smidge of it, of course-- his face rarely ever shows anything-- but he's excited. Or nervous, but probably excited.

"Sup, Egbert," he says, and you give up heading back to your room.

"Oh, hi, Dave," you force your face into a dopey grin. "I was just gonna head in for the night. I finished playing and stuff."

"K," he shrugs, leaning over the sofa. "But you can totally spare some time to talk to your bro for a couple minutes, yeah?"

"I dunno, Dave," you sneak a peek at your phone. It's almost two AM, and you really do not want to deal with Dave and his bullshit. "It's pretty late."

"Yeah," he answers. "But it's important. CIA levels of importance here. Shit's more serious than stealing the Declaration of Independence to prevent it from being completely destroyed by some random douchebag. The entirety of American history could be changed if you choose not to listen to me."

Oh no. It really _is_ important. You cannot get out of this one-- he even referenced one of your movies.

"Fine, what is it?"

You hope he makes it quick. You just want to curl up under your covers and never come out again.

"I proposed to her last night," Dave answers, and you feel your heart clench with the intensity of all of the "no"s you feel like screaming right now.

"Really?" you press your hands to your cheeks in a surprised expression. You are a fucking idiot, you should have seen this coming it was practically written all over--

"Yeah. We're gonna get married pretty soon. She wants it done ASAP," Dave replies, and you might just cry.

"You could have told me this tomorrow morning," you bite back, unintentionally with more vitriol than you'd intended. You couldn't hide it with all of the feelings crashing down inside you.

"Someone needs their beauty sleep," Dave tisks sarcastically, and you can tell that he's rolling his eyes. "But bro, when I said ASAP, I meant it. She's at the registry picking up some papers now. We're getting married at sunrise."

"What!?" you exclaim, completely shocked. She's always been the spontaneous type, but you didn't think... You can feel your heart in your throat; this can't be happening. This is the worst dream ever. You're going to wake up, you are, it can't be...

"We were gonna do it at midnight, but like hell I'm getting hitched without my best bro there," he says, and you watch his Adam's Apple bob as he swallows back what must have been a smile. "Be my best man?"

"Fuck," is the first word out of your mouth. You swallow hard, afraid you're going to start to cry or scream or something. One more word manages to choke itself out of your chitinous windpipe, "No!"

"No?" Dave's forehead scrunches, and you are certain his eyebrows are furrowed, too. "What the fuck, man? Why not?"

"No," you steel yourself as you try to hold back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to shove your face to the floor. "No, I don't wan't you to marry her!"

"Jesus dick," you feel the exasperation in his voice more than hearing it. "I know you're not exactly buddy-buddy, but _why_? And don't give me one of you BS excuses, again. She isn't being possessed by ghosts, bro."

"Why?" your voice cracks in borderline hysteria. You inhale sharply to try to calm yourself. You won't break down in front of Dave, you can't. "I don't know, I've had some pretty interesting revelations today. Really interesting ones. Like, change-my-life interesting. As in I realized stuff that's been true for a long time, but I didn't know it. Stuff I've felt forever but didn't know I felt until now."

"You all right there?" Dave sounds deeply upset by your words, and you don't realize how much you're shaking until the weight of his hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

"No," you hiccup, and there's water on your face. That infuriates you for some reason, and you shove his hand off of you, "No, I'm NOT okay! Because you know what? I actually _AM_ a homosexual, and I just realized that **I LOVE YOU** , OKAY?"

You wipe away saline drops from your face, tracing the trails all the way up to your eyes and cutting them off with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. Through your fucked-up, tear-warped vision, you can see Dave's mouth hanging open. For once in his life, he has nothing to say.

He seizes you by the collar of your hoodie, pulling you roughly towards him before pressing his lips to yours, gloriously warm and pliable, yet rough and chapped and thoroughly real. It takes you a second before you remember to kiss back, moving your own lips against his and swinging your arms around him, wishing he'd never let you go. He pulls back for half a breath, then lunges back in with far more passion, and you can't help but open your mouth the slightest bit, needing him closer than ever. His tongue makes an aggressive move against yours and then you remember.

He tastes like her and her cherry lipgloss, he tastes like her and her delicious spaghetti sauce, and he isn't yours.

He seems to realize it at the same time you do, pulling away, chest heaving.

"Sorry," he says, letting go of your sweatshirt. His shades are askew, and you swore you could almost see his eyes and all their emotions for a second there. "I'm so fucking sorry."

He steps back and readjusts his suit. He's good at it, and in less than a minute, it looks like he'd never had sloppy makeouts with his roommate at all, as if he'd just gone back in time and erased the event like it never happened.

"The wedding's at the chapel on Goliath Street," Dave's eyes don't meet yours, you can feel it even through his shades. "It starts in three hours. See you there."

He leaves you.

You sit there for seconds-- minutes, hours, God knows how long, with your fingers over your lips. You wouldn't even know it had happened if not for the red, red taste of cherries and tomato sauce on your lips-- _her_ taste, you remind yourself, not Dave's.

You eventually manage to bring yourself to go there, possibly hours late, possibly hours early. You borrow one of Dave's suits (and it has nothing to do with wanting to wear his clothes; you legitimately do not own one), head down to the parking garage, and muster up the courage to drive to Goliath Street. Your heart pounds like a tired drum, aching but pulsing audibly.

A heavy rock settles in your stomach as you pull up to the chapel, your knuckles contrasting white against the pitch black of your steering wheel. In that moment, you realize that you can't do it. You're not strong enough. You make yourself park the car, though. Your Dave, your best friend is getting married, and even if you can't bring yourself to attend, you can't make yourself stay away, either. You have to be there for him, you just...

You rest your head on the steering wheel and take a few shuddering breaths to quell the urge to sob. You fail miserably as they choke off your throat, bubbling up in hiccups and tears and then, you're gone.

"GAME OVER" flashes behind your eyelids. You have no more lives left, no more chances. You missed the last checkpoint, the last save spot, the last place you could have stopped this. This is it, this is the end, you blew it, John. You blew it. Because you love him, because you've loved him since you've met him, because you're always going to love him, you cannot walk into that chapel.

You fall asleep against your steering wheel, and your dashboard is stained with tears.


	2. Part II (Optional)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michelle is derived from a clusterfuck of trolls. Guess which ones. Should be more entertaining than reading her shitty story.

You are John Egbert, and you have just had one hell of a night.

Your back is in pain from falling asleep in your car, your head is in pain from too many thoughts buzzing inside it, and your heart is in pain because the best bro that you're in love with just got married.

You are about to snap at whoever it was that woke you up with their insistent tapping on your window-- probably the police, telling you not to loiter-- but you stop, completely shocked at who it is.

"Open up," she mouths, and you roll down the window for Michelle... although by now, it would probably be more appropriate to say Mrs. Strider, you think half-bitterly.

"Good morning," you say to her, faking a cheesy grin. You realize that "good morning" is probably the only phrase you have ever said to her, ever. "Congratulations on the wedding."

"What wedding?" she sounds utterly perplexed. She looks at her watch quickly. "Dave is over an hour late. I was wondering if you knew where he was, actually..."

Your lips form a downward arc. Dave is never late. His timing is impeccable.

"I don't know," you answer, wiping some dried liquid off your face. You are unable to ascertain whether it's saliva or tears. Probably both, now that you think about it. "He told me to come here. All I did was show up."

She sighs and looks at you with an apologetic expression, "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

You feel your chest tighten, recalling the last time you'd heard those words. Probably not more than four hours ago.

"It's okay, it's not your fault," you try to smile again, while the voices in your head chant slander about her and cry out in hate and pain.

"No, I mean it," she sounds like the hardboiled lawyer she's training to be more than an emotional bride who just got ditched at her own wedding. "Let me in. There's a cafe just down the road from here. I need to talk to you."

Abscond! Abscond! You've hardly spoken to this woman before now, and there's a very good reason why. Every cell of your body screams "Abscond!" but the look in her blue-gray eyes says she will not take no for an answer. She could-- and likely _would_ \-- literally wrestle you out of this car and drag you there herself.

Against your better judgement, you unlock the door and drive out to the cafe, a small, brick-laid building with "Sam's" painted in crimson above the doorway. Michelle leads you inside and manages to get you seated at a fairly private booth in the very back, away from the counter where most other patrons take their meals.

"It's on me," she adds, as if she's afraid to scare you away before she can say anything. "Take it as an apology gift. Sorry you had to come out so early for nothing."

"Sorry you didn't actually manage to get married," you reply awkwardly, even though you can't bring yourself to be sorry at all.

"Sorry you were under the impression that there was actually going to be a wedding," Michelle sips at the coffee that a waiter was kind enough to bring over while they mull over the menu. You note that she drinks it black, and scaldingly hot, just like Dave.

"What do you mean?" your brows furrow in confusion.

"I knew he'd back out of it," she half-smiles, but it's shaky. You can tell it's fake; you are John Egbert, master of disguises, after all. "Because he never wanted to marry me in the first place."

"But he asked you...?" you inquire, perplexed.

"He didn't mean it," she scarfs down the rest of her coffee, and you wonder how she doesn't burn her throat. "He never meant any of it."

"That's stupid. He said he loved you, right?" you swallow your words around the arrow in your throat.

"I was never anything but a fucking quick lay he met half-drunk at a club," she snorts almost resentfully. "I woulda been fine with a one night stand or some shit, cause he's pretty hot and all, but the fucking bastard had to go and make me fall in love with him, too. But like hell I was going to let him actually marry me, he would've been miserable. It was an elaborate game of pretend and he was only fooling himself... and you, apparently."

You are John Egbert and sometimes, you just don't understand.

"... what."

"Listen, you can cut the crap," she slams her mug on the table so hard, a thin crack goes up its side. "I don't know what kind of face-down idiot you are, but he loves you, okay? He looks at pictures of you on his phone when we're out, he fucking mumbles your name in his sleep, and if he's drunk when we bang, he calls me 'John'. He's supposed to be over you, but I fucking guess not."

You stare at her for a second, gobsmacked. That's not possible, there's no way it's true, it can't be, this is the worst prank ever.

"No," you try to interrupt.

"But there's more," she adds caustically. "You fucking dipshit. You don't even realize that you love him, too. You leave when you see me with him, you practically flinch every time we touch, it's almost sickening how much you want on his dick. Wake up and smell the coffee, Sleeping Beauty!"

"I did," you feel the need to defend yourself. God, you hate her more every minute. "I just-- it was too late."

"So you were going to let him ruin the rest of his life without him knowing," she has given up all pretense of caring and is drinking coffee straight from the pot.

"I told him when he said he was going to get married," you admit.

She looks you in the eye over her rose-tinted shades.

"Go the hell back home, fuckass," she orders. "Ride his dick like you're some gogdamn cowboy in a shitty western film. How hard can it be? I did it for like a year and a half, and he doesn't even like me."

"I can't," you answer, averting your gaze to the open window. Red amaryllises bloom in the flower planter outside the sill.

"Can't... or won't?" she scowls, reaching into her handbag for a moment. "Why not let luck decide? Here's a coin. Heads, you go to him. Tails... I will. A second chance for both of us. Sounds fair, right?"

"Are you-- really? Gambling on...?" you fumble with your words, upset she would place such a high stakes bet. "It sounds fair but--"

"Good," she cuts you off. "I don't know what you're going to do, but if I win I'm picking up right where we left off. We can schedule a wedding for real."

You gulp nervously, eyeing the coin. She flips it, and the quarter goes flying off her thumb and into the air, coming down on the table with a clink. It rolls around on its side, spinning in on an aimless path...

Straight off the table.

You and she simultaneously go down to look at it, as it comes to a halt right by one of the table's legs.

"I can't see it," she says, adjusting and readjusting her shades. "It's too dark down here. What's it say?"

You look at the coin. Tails. You feel your chest grow tight and tears threaten to prick at your eyes again. A second chance, you almost had a second chance. You'd give anything for a second chance.

You take a deep breath in and close your eyes for a second before standing, leaving the coin as is on the ground.

"It's heads," you lie, excusing yourself from the table. You have a Strider to go catch, after all, and you run out the door, out to your car, and drive like a madman back home.

You are greeted by a kiss and a whispered litany of apologies as Dave crushes you to his chest, and you kiss him over and over and over again, holding him to you as closely as possible. You call each other out for being complete idiots amid a slew of "I love you"s and "never again"s and, at last, you both fall asleep on the sofa after a long, long night and an even longer morning.

You are John Egbert and you'd never slept better in your life.

\----Bonus----

You are Michelle almost-Strider, and you almost let an unironic tear drip into your coffee.

Flicking it away from your face, you squeeze the lucky coin in the fist of your other hand, twin eagles making miniature impressions into your palm.

You knew he could do it.


End file.
